


i'm surprised when you kiss me

by led_zephlin



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Confessions, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 15:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21210851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/led_zephlin/pseuds/led_zephlin
Summary: Cleo knows what they say about workplace romances, and she’s never been enough of a romantic to have hope for that sort of thing, but, well…Bette makes her want to hope.Written for Rusty Quill Gaming Girls Week.





	i'm surprised when you kiss me

“Can I have an Americano with four shots, please?”

Cleo glances up from the order she’s writing on the side of a cup. The kid who’s made the request can’t be more than fourteen, and they peer up at her with wide, brown doe eyes.

“That’s seven shots,” she says before she can stop herself. They’re not supposed to criticize customers, but the way the kid absent-mindedly taps on the counter at a rapid-fire pace makes her think she ought to make some kind of bid for their health. “You kids know that this stuff will stunt your growth, right?”

“I’m eighteen,” they say indignantly, and when their voice cracks Cleo can’t help but laugh. Even without the hard case of babyface, she’d shit herself if this kid was actually older than sixteen.

“You’re definitely not eighteen,” she says. “And you won’t ever look it if you keep putting this much caffeine into your system.” 

The kid scowls—pouts, more like, and their face screws up like they’re thinking hard as their fingers play with an enamel pin on the collar of an oversized and worn jean jacket that reads  _ they/them. _

“Fine. Three shots, then,” they say finally.

Cleo sighs, but considers it a victory. “Name?”

“Sam,” they say, and their voice cracks again. Cleo scribbles it down.

“Anything else?”

“Nope.” Cleo nods, and rings them up, and Sam pulls a fistful of coins out of their pocket and carefully counts out the full total, plus an extra 25% that clatters loudly into the glass jar beside the register. Kid’s a good tipper. Those are rare. 

She hands them a receipt and they take it before heading to one of the back tables. Cleo reaches behind her to set the cup down, and cool fingers touch hers as her coworker, Bette, takes it from her with a fluid speed.

“I’ve got it,” Bette says, her voice gentle and light like it’s wind whistling through the trees, and Cleo can’t help but glance back at her to smile in thanks. 

Bette beams shyly back through rose-tinted glasses framed by honey-blonde hair and something soft nestles itself inside Cleo’s heart at the sight. She knows what they say about workplace romances, and she’s never been enough of a romantic to have hope for that sort of thing, but, well…

Bette makes her want to hope.

* * *

Bette always tries very hard to be kind. She believes that the world is awful and hard enough without everyone making it worse for each other and that everyone deserves respect unless proven otherwise.

Working in customer service makes it very, very difficult for her to stay true to that philosophy sometimes. She’s never bothered to count the number of times that some self-serving ass has berated her at the register, but Cleo has, and apparently the number is “at least seven times.” 

Some people aren’t rude, bless them, but they are very, very tedious to serve, much like the energetic old man she’s currently taking the order of. His name is Nigel, he’s a local historian, and apparently, if you recommend a cinnamon streusel muffin to him, he’ll begin some tangent about sprites and fairies. Which is interesting, perhaps, and he’s very enthusiastic about it, but the line in a coffee shop is not the best place for this sort of thing.

“And you know, the history of them in Ireland is so much more complex and intriguing,” he’s saying now, and the wrinkles around his eyes have gotten deeper as his excitement grows.

“Mhm,” Bette replies, a pleasant smile frozen on her lips. She’s never been very good at asserting herself and laments that particular trait as Nigel goes on. 

He’s still talking when the door opens with a cheery tinkle of the bell above it, and Bette tries not to sigh as someone gets in line behind him. 

It’s one of their regulars, Sam, she’s pretty sure their name is, and she catches their eye just long enough to adjust her smile in a way that conveys an apology. They offer the slightest of smiles back, but it fades quickly into something somber, and she notes the dark circles under their eyes. 

Nigel is...still talking (about phookas, now?), and Bette tries to get a word in, but it’s impossible.

A hand settles on her shoulder, then, and she feels a rush of relief as Cleo says from next to her, “Your order, sir,” and extends a cardboard cup out to him. 

“Oh, thank you,” he says, taking it from her, “Now, as I was saying—”

“Sir,” Cleo interjects, firm but not unkind, “There are other customers in line.”

Nigel blinks, and glances behind him to see Sam standing there, who raises their eyebrows in way of weary greeting. 

“Apologies,” he says, moving out of the way. “Good day, miss,” he adds to Bette before heading towards the door without tipping. Bette sighs now. 

“Thanks,” she says to Cleo. 

“Of course,” Cleo replies, and Bette tries not to think about how close Cleo’s lips are to her ear. Cleo’s voice is already a husky gentleness that feels like a warm fire on a cold day, but Bette nearly shivers at how it sounds now, a near conspiratorially low pitch not meant for customers, but just for her. 

Bette clears her throat and nods at Sam, who steps forward. 

“Want me to take over?” Cleo asks, still quietly.

“No, don’t worry, I’ve got this,” Bette replies before turning to Sam. “What can I do for you?”

“A medium americano, please,” they say, and their voice cracks. “With f—” they eye Cleo, still standing next to her, and scowl as they continue, “—three shots.”

“Sure thing,” she says, and Cleo has already moved to start making the drink, “Anything else?”

They cast a longing look at the banana muffins in the display case, but shake their head and pull out some money. 

When they’ve paid and tipped and are on their way to a table, Bette doesn’t miss the way they glance briefly at someone else’s sandwich, and her bleeding heart can’t help but compel her to take a muffin from the case and move towards Cleo. 

“Give them this for me, will you?” she whispers, and Cleo locks eyes with her for a moment before nodding. Their fingers brush as she takes it from Bette, who isn’t sure if her heart is pounding from that or the impulsivity of her decision. She does her best to shrug it off and go back to the register.

After all, there’s no sense in worrying about being kind. 

* * *

Late-night shifts are a hell of a thing, and Cleo has quite the love-hate relationship with them. 

On the one hand, she has access to the old pastry that no one ever wants, and the shop is always fairly empty, so she and Bette are free to make themselves mochas and chat until closing time.

On the other, she can’t deny that her faculties get more hampered as her weariness grows. 

This is only proven to her as she goes to empty out the toaster oven, expecting it to be cool.

She remembers, too late, that it can’t be, because someone had just come in and requested a toasted sandwich, so the oven is still on. 

She remembers it just as her hand connects with the hot metal and pain laces across the skin there.

_ “Ow, fuck—!”  _ The tray she’d been trying to pick up clatters to the ground loudly. Bette squeaks in alarm from the tables across the shop that she’s wiping down, and Sam, the only other person in the building, flinches from their usual spot. Eyes shut tight, their shoulders hunch and their foot taps rapidly for a few moments.

“Sorry,” Cleo says tightly as her fingertips protest at the burn.

“Are you alright, Cleo?” Bette calls.

“Yeah, fine, just— just clumsy,” she replies through gritted teeth. “

“Oh, dear, let me have a look—” Abandoning her post, Bette crosses the room, her round face already wrought with worry.

“No, it’s alright, I’m fine, honestly,” Cleo says, berating herself for being careless.

“Don't be silly, come on, now—” Bette’s hands are cold but Cleo feels heat flush her cheeks as Bette cradles her palm. A lock of golden hair falls into her eyes as she examines the injury and Cleo has to resist the urge to tuck it behind her ear.

“Here, we ought to get something cold on it—” Bette coaxes her backward towards the sink and turns the tap, and Cleo nearly sighs at the blissful coolness of the water when it hits the pained area.

“Keep that there,” Bette says, and her skirt flies out in a pink circle as she spins to move towards the icebox. Cleo glances up to check on Sam, who, to her touched surprise, has come up to the counter.

“You alright?” they ask, brow furrowed. 

“Just a little burn, I think,” she replies. She checks her watch, and notes that it’s only five minutes to closing. “Do you have a ride home, love? We close soon, and it’s awfully dark out.” 

Sam stuffs their hands into their pockets and shifts from one foot to the other. “Yeah,” they say, not looking her in the eye, and Cleo knows they’re lying, “Yeah, my dad should be here soon.”

“Mm.” Cleo isn’t convinced. “Well, give me a minute and you can take home some of the leftover desserts.”

Their eyes widen. “Really?”

“Of course. We’re not supposed to, obviously, but—” She shrugs. “We’ll only be throwing it out otherwise, and it’s an awful waste, don’t you think?” She winks and they grin back at her. 

“Here,” Bette cuts in as she comes back, holding a makeshift ice pack. 

“I’m alright, Bette, really—” It flusters Cleo a bit, to have someone so pretty fussing over her.

“This will make it better, though,” Bette insists, handing the ice pack to her. “You take this and I’ll make a bag for Sam.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Cleo says, somewhat teasingly, and Bette flushes slightly but turns on her heel to head for the pastry case. 

“Well, if you ever need a ride home after being here all day,” Cleo says to Sam, “Just let me know.”

Sam blinks as if surprised by the kindness in her voice but nods. They blink faster and faster when Bette hands them a bag of food, clutching it to their chest and mumbling words of thanks before making a beeline for the door. 

Bette clucks her tongue. “I do worry about them,” she says, more to herself than anything, tapping a concerned finger against her lips. 

“So do I,” Cleo says, resting her uninjured hand onto Bette’s shoulder. Bette smiles softly, and as the night paints the windows black and the solitude of them in the shop becomes more and more prevalent, Cleo is starting to think that maybe she likes the late-night shifts after all.

* * *

It’s another late-night shift sometime much later when Bette decides that perhaps she ought to ask Cleo out. As terrified as she is, she figures it’s best to put things out in the open, so she doesn’t feel as though she’s secretly taking advantage of their friendship, or whatever their connection is at this point. 

Cleo holds the door open for her as she leaves the shop, and it’s just swung closed when Cleo says, “Where do you park, anyways? I’ve never seen your car, I don’t think.”

Caught off guard by this, Bette flounders for a moment.

“Oh, well—I don’t have one,” she says finally. Cleo stops dead in her tracks. 

“You don’t?”

“No.” 

“Haven’t you got a ride home?” Cleo asks. “Someone to come get you?”

Bette shifts nervously. “No, er—I can’t drive,” she admits. “Not very good at riding bikes, either, I’m afraid.”

“How are you getting home then?” Cleo demands, casting a suspicious glance down the sidewalk where it’s covered in shadows. “Surely you don’t walk home.”

“I take the bus,” Bette replies, a bit embarrassed. “There’s a stop a little ways away from here.”

“I could give you a ride, if you like,” Cleo says. “I don’t like the idea of you being out in the dark by yourself.” 

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to trouble you—”

“It’s not trouble, honestly—”

“I appreciate it,” Bette says, “But it’s alright, really.”

Cleo doesn’t look convinced. “Well, if there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

She locks eyes with Bette, so firmly selfless that Bette can’t help but reply, “I will.” 

Satisfied with that, Cleo begins to rifle through the keys in her hand, looking for the one to the shop’s front. The silence save for the clinking of keys is deafening, and Bette feels like now is the time to make her move.

“Er, Cleo?” 

“Hm?” Cleo glances up from the keys in her hand. The streetlamp glows behind her, eclipsed by her afro, creating a golden halo around her face. 

“I—” Bette loses her nerve for a moment. What else is she supposed to do when confronted by an angel? “I—er, like your hair,” she says lamely, and internally kicks herself.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

Cleo smiles softly anyways. “Thank you,” she replies, and she sounds almost amused. She’s found the right key at last, and moves to lock the door. When the key’s been turned and she straightens the bag on her shoulder, Bette knows the window is closing fast. 

She reaches out to catch Cleo’s arm, gently. “That—that wasn’t what I wanted to—to say,” she stammers. Cleo’s gaze flicks down to Bette’s hand on her arm, then back up. 

Bette takes her hand away very quickly. “Sorry.” She can feel her face growing red, and she laments her fair complexion

“Quite alright.” Cleo’s dark eyes seem to be searching hers. “What  _ did _ you want to say, then?” she asks softly.

“Well,” Bette says, taking a deep breath, “I—I was wondering if—you might like to, you know, go out sometime. With—with me.” She swallows hard. “As a—a date.” 

Cleo raises an eyebrow, and Bette’s heart sinks. 

“You don’t have to say yes!” she hurries to say. “I just—I like you and I like working with you and I—I thought it might be nice to spend time with you—outside of work—but if you’re not interested, that’s fine—” She backs away slightly, fighting a lump in her throat. 

Cleo’s expression has softened, or maybe that’s just the tears welling up in Bette’s eyes blurring her features as she wrings her hands. 

“I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything—” The hurt in her chest is quickly turning to embarrassment and Bette has an overwhelming urge to run. “I’ve got a bus to catch, I should go—” 

She turns to leave, and a firm but gentle hand laces around her thin wrist. “Bette, wait,” says Cleo’s voice, normally so silken and cool but now touched with the faintest hint of urgency.

Reluctantly, Bette turns back to face Cleo, her heart pounding. “What?” she says, and her voice cracks a bit.

Cleo lets go of her, and raises her hand to Bette’s cheek, dark brown knuckles wiping away the tears there. 

“You didn’t let me answer,” she replies softly. 

Bette is sure that her face must be bright red by now. “Sorry—I didn’t want to hear you say no,” she says tearfully.

Cleo’s fingers cup her chin and tilt her face upwards.

“I wasn’t going to say no,” Cleo says, and then kisses her. 

Cleo is hard as nails, but her lips are soft and so is the hand that moves to gently tangle in Bette’s hair, so soft that Bette is sure that this is all a dream.

Everything in her feels lighter than air as Cleo’s lips finally leave hers, there’s a breath caught in Bette’s throat and she doesn't want to open her eyes only to find that it really only is a dream. 

She does open them, however reluctantly, and the serene smile on Cleo’s lips, lips that she just kissed, makes her knees weak.

“Is—is that a yes, then?” she whispers nervously. Cleo laughs and presses another kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Definitely a yes,” she says, and when her thumb skims across Bette’s bottom lip, fireworks seem thrum inside her chest, “Maybe not coffee, though.”

Bette giggles at that and Cleo laughs with her, and she feels so happy she could weep.

A clattering comes from the alley, and a loud, “Oh,  _ come on! _ ” cracks the air just like the voice that says it. Bette and Cleo exchange a confused look. 

“Is that…?” Bette trails off, and Cleo edges past her to investigate, standing at the edge of the alley.

“Sam?” Cleo says. “What are you doing here? I thought you left twenty minutes ago.” 

Sam comes out of the alley, looking as grumpy as one can with half a muffin in their mouth.

“You said to ask you for a ride if I needed one,” they mumble around the muffin. “I figured I’d just wait til you came out to close.” They swallow the food in their mouth. “But you, er—seemed busy.” They glance over at Bette, who can’t help but blush a little.

“Well—” Cleo doesn’t seem to have a ready retort. “I can certainly drive you now. It’s alright to just tell me next time.”

Sam nods, and Cleo ruffles their hair affectionately as they pass to get into Cleo’s car.

“You sure you don’t want a ride?” Cleo says to Bette as the car door shuts.

“Well...if it’s not too much trouble,” Bette concedes.

“It’s not trouble at all,” Cleo assures. “Come on, then.” She reaches for Bette’s hand to pull her towards the car, and something like electricity thrums in Bette’s veins.

* * *

It’s not until they’re in the car that Sam, from the backseat, goes, “Well, it’s about damn time,” to Cleo, and when she laughs, the whole thing feels so right to Bette that it’s almost as if, in another life, the three of them could have been some kind of family.

Maybe that can still happen in this life.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment/kudos, please!!!


End file.
